Graham Greene's novel claims to be one of love and hate - as all truely great love stories are. This story (or Bendrix and Sarah's) is tumultous love at its best - in all it's gory glory; from deep seated jealousies to blinding, confusing love - the kind that leaves you a little burned but back for more.
Bendrix, the narrator, is writing a novel on love and hate. But his own love affair with Sarah has left him battered and bruised and bitter all at once. He is petty, and mean and flawed but he is in love, (and hate) and sometimes that word allows us all an excuse doesn't it?
"How can I make a stranger see her as she stopped in the hall at the foot of the stairs and turned to us? I have never been able to describe even my fictitious characters except by their actions. It has always seemed to me that in a novel the reader should be allowed to imagine a character in any way he chooses: I do not want to supply him with ready-made illustrations. Now I am betrayed by my own technique, for I do not want any other woman substituted for Sarah, I want the reader to see the one broad forehead and bold mouth, the conformation of the skull, but all I can convey is an indeterminate figure turning in the dripping mackintosh, saying, 'Yes, Henry?' and then 'You?'"
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